A black silk furbelowed scarf covered her shoulders; and over the kincob gown hung a yellow satin apron, trimmed with white Persian. The old man Pottiswick, still grumbling, much to Melusine’s disgust, had gone on his errand to his daughter’s house some two miles distant. Ann Veronica looked up at him and found him regarding her with eyes that were almost woebegone, and into which, indeed, he was trying to throw much more expression than they could carry. Her shoulders were gripped hard and a familiar voice spoke. The highest form of knowledge was magic: the priesthood. He looked at her, hurt. "Halloa, widow!" shouted a rough voice from below, "where the devil are you?" Mrs.
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